The Barefoot Boy With Shoes On
by SlutForEngland
Summary: Sometime after season 1 and before season 2, Sherlock and John investigate the case of a murdered man found naked-it proves barely diverting for Sherlock, but he does get free concert tickets out of it, and John meets another of Sherlock's many associates.


The Barefoot Boy With Shoes On

I'd been out doing the shopping. Sherlock was incapable of realizing that the food in the flat did not simply replenish itself, growing up overnight like mushrooms. Not that he'd notice if it did. This was, after all, the man who resolutely refused to remember anything about the solar system.

Juggling the heavy net bags, my keys, and an umbrella, I stumbled up the stairs, looking forward to a nice afternoon of sipping tea, working on my blog, and perhaps seeing Sarah later.

"Aha! There you are John. Good. You can help."

"Help? What with? Sherlock, what the hell have you done to the flat?" I surveyed the wreckage. When I'd left that morning, Sherlock had been curled up on the couch, deeply asleep with my pistol clenched in his fist. I'd pried it loose—good thing too, as the safety was off—but that had failed to wake him and I'd gone to do the shopping alone. He probably wouldn't pay for his half, either, although Mycroft undoubtedly would find out and send me a check. The flat was completely torn apart. Books were scattered around the floor, all the cushions were off the couch, and—oh god—he'd even torn down the curtains.

"I can't find my phone, and I wanted to look up the weather in Edinburgh. Help me find it, would you," he said, meanwhile opening every drawer in my desk and tossing the contents on the floor.

"Sherlock, your computer is right there. On the chair. Where you left it last night."

"I wanted to look it up on my phone!"

I sighed, went to the refrigerator, and pulled the phone out of the vegetable crisper drawer. I'd stuck it there last night when it started ringing at 3, and failed to wake him up. I glanced at it now—twelve missed calls from Lestrade.

"You put my phone in the crisper drawer?"

I was spared from trying to explain by the phone in question ringing.

"Who's it from?" Sherlock asked.

"Unknown caller—020 3417 8944."

"Oh, don't answer it. It's from Lestrade."

"How'd you know that?"

"It's the number of the pay phone outside his office building. Plus he was trying to call me last night."

"Why didn't you answer?"

"He was calling at three! I was asleep!"

"Well so was I, until your phone woke me up."

"Hence the crisper drawer, I see."

The phone rang again, and I answered, "Hi, this is John."

"Oh, of course. He's still busy?" Lestrade's voice was tinny and grave. I looked over to where Sherlock was squatting on the floor, flipping through an ancient monograph he'd no doubt stolen from the British Museum. "In a manner of speaking."

"Well, just let him know we've found Todd Murphey. Naked and dead."

"Er, right."

"Oh—and tell him that Todd was naked before he died. Naked and outside."

"Er, right."

"Oh—and if he still won't come, find a way to get him to Piccadilly Circus anyway, would you?"

"Well I'm not promising anything, but I'll try." I hung up. It'd be good to get him out of the house for a bit, give me time to clean up and maybe get new curtains.

"So they found Todd Murphey?" Sherlock barely looked up from a no doubt fascinating display of tire treads in the early 20th century. "What's Lestrade's kicker line, then?"

"He's naked, apparently."

"He's got to do better than that. I can go down to the morgue anytime, should I want to ogle naked men."

"Well, Lestrade says that the guy was naked before he was murdered."

"Boring," Sherlock said, stretching the two syllables even longer. "So he likes a quick shag in the alley and got offed for it. Propositioned the wrong guy."

"Well you could go check it out at least."

"Oh fine," he exclaimed with the air of one doing a great favor. "And if do you get new curtains, get black, will you?"

"Black?"

"Harder to see through at night from the outside."

##

"Oh good Sherlock, you came. Take a look at this," Lestrade held up the crime scene tape for him.

"Look, a naked man. How thrilling."

"I've been taking a leaf out of your book, you know. He was definitely naked before he came outside, and before he was killed—blunt force trauma to the head, by the way."

"Do tell me how you deduced that particular bit of information. As you're dying to tell me anyway." Sherlock knelt beside the body, inspecting the wound on the head.

"Look at his feet." Lestrade was practically hopping with excitement. "He's got mud on them, even between his toes. If he'd been stripped after he'd been killed, his feet wouldn't be that dirty."

"Also, no lesions or marks on his feet—if the shoes had been removed forcibly, there would be signs of it," Sherlock added.

"Well…yes. I, uh, noticed that as well."

"Well the murder weapon is right over there," said Sherlock, pointing to a broken brick lying in the alley a few feet away. "There's a considerable amount of brick dust in his wound." He rubbed gritty blood between his fingers experimentally. "And what's a disbarred attorney doing with red Armani boxers?"

"How…?"

"These fibers on his thighs," Sherlock held up a few filaments. "Armani uses a very specific dye."

"No, I meant, how did you know he was a disbarred attorney?"

"I read the papers too, Lestrade. Which means that I also know he's unemployed, divorced, and that he has to pay child support."

"Oh…right."

Sherlock stuck a finger between the man's toes and sniffed the mud, then laughed. "I've got to go, Lestrade. You might try to find his girlfriend and interview her."

"He has a girlfriend?"

"Obviously. Also she's probably well-known, which is why she hasn't come forward yet."

##

"Come on John, we've got a violinist to visit."

"A who? Did you solve the case?"

"Almost—I want to check some facts. Leave the books, you can put them back later."

Sherlock hailed down a taxi outside the flat, and asked for the Tower of London. I tried to elicit information about the case from him on the way there, but all he would tell me was that Todd had not, in fact, been fond of a quick shag in the alley.

"I told you the case would be interesting."

"Barely out of the ordinary. But at least Lestrade will be busy for the next day or so, looking up the girlfriend."

"Why aren't you doing that?"

"Because I already know where she lives. What's the fun in that? Plus, this way's much quicker."

When we arrived at the Tower of London, Sherlock impatiently threading his way though fat American tourists and muttering under his breath, we heard the violin before we saw the violinist. She'd rigged up a portable amp with wires that were more tape than anything else, and was playing Bach with careless flourishes I thought sounded familiar. We finally saw her through a bumbling crowd, dressed in tattered leather and lace, leaning against a low wall and observing the passers-by keenly. Across the way, a bedraggled saxophonist was playing obnoxious slow jazz tunes, competing with her Bach. We waited for her to finish the piece, and a good number of the assembled tourists tossed two-pound coins or crumpled fivers into her open case. The violinist gave Sherlock a quick smile.

"So what is it this time, Holmes? And who's your friend?"

"Hi, John Watson, I'm Sherlock's flatmate," I said, leaning over to shake her hand.

"Ah, you poor bastard. My condolences."

Sherlock cut in. "John, Charlotte. Charlotte, John. She taught me to play, a couple of years ago."

"In a manner of speaking. What he means is that I taught him how to hold a violin properly, and then sat in his flat for hours over the next few weeks while he figured the rest of it out himself," Charlotte amended. "Wouldn't let me tell him how to do anything. Said it was cheating. When he got better than me I stopped coming."

"Actually, you stormed out jealously and wouldn't help me for a week," corrected Sherlock.

"Well, violinists, you know—we tend to be a competitive lot." Charlotte grinned. "Plus you didn't need the help, you were just being lazy."

I wasn't surprised Sherlock had picked up the violin so quickly, but it was a little strange that he'd learned from a street musician. I supposed she was part of his homeless network.

"So to what unfortunate circumstance—doubtless involving a dead body—do I owe the pleasure of your witty banter?"

"Todd Murphey, found dead and naked in an alley off Piccadilly Circus. He was here rather a lot recently, without shoes on, judging by the mud between his toes." Sherlock gave Charlotte a brief physical description of the man.

"Oh, that's Barefoot Bob. Poor guy. I'd wondered where he'd gone. He used to play across the way, where that horrible saxophonist is now—he played percussion, made all the instruments himself out of plastic buckets and boxes and things. Used a shopping cart instead of cymbals. He spent hours tinkering with his equipment to get the sounds he wanted. Quite clever stuff, really."

"Barefoot Bob?" I asked.

"Nice alliteration, yeah? It was part of his act. Buskers are hardly ever homeless—not the good ones anyway. Todd used to play with the London Phil, but he starting coming out here when he was disbarred and had to pay child support."

"If he was so good, why didn't he just keep playing in the orchestra?" I asked.

"The money. Orchestras pay hardly anything, and you have endless rehearsals for only a few performances. You can't beat busking for steady work. That particular corner he used to play on is worth a thousand pounds a week, easy."

"And the barefoot part?"

"People tend to give more if you look charmingly destitute. You don't think I dress like this in real life, do you?" Charlotte picked at the hem of her carefully-distressed dress. "Homeless chic."

"Yes, yes, your sartorial choices are fascinating," Sherlock broke in dryly. "When did Bob—Todd stop showing up?"

"Three days ago—I thought he must have found another job. You stop showing up in your spot for a day, especially a good one, and someone else is bound to take it. Buskers are very territorial, and if you don't want your claim jumped, you have to be there pretty constantly."

"And this saxophonist?"

"Showed up two days ago. Hasn't missed a day yet—never even leaves for lunch. He's probably going to be able to keep the spot."

"Name?"

"Albert. I'm guessing it's fake—although…"

Sherlock cut in, "Although his homelessness isn't. He's been sleeping in an alley for months, somewhere around Piccadilly I'd guess."

"How'd you get Piccadilly?" Charlotte asked.

"Colour of the mold streaks down his left sleeve," Sherlock responded tersely, then turned towards me. "Let's go John, that's all we need. Thank you for your assistance, Charlotte."

"Anytime, Holmes. Oh, and before you rush off, I've got a couple tickets to go see Hilary Hahn tomorrow night—care to join me?"

"Hilary Hahn? Never heard of her," Sherlock said, winding his scarf around his neck.

"She's new—from America. I've never heard her play myself, but she's doing Shostakovich."

"First or Second?"

"First."

"Ah. Ahhhhhh…tomorrow?"

"Cadogan Hall, 8 pm. See you then." Charlotte grinned, and picked up her violin again. "Now shoo, you're scaring off the tourists."

##

Sherlock hailed a taxi. "Baker Street," he said.

"Why not Piccadilly? Shouldn't we see what else we can find out at the scene?" I asked.

"No need—we've already seen everything we need to," answered Sherlock. "Phone?"

I dug in my coat pocket. "Here." He took it and dialed.

"Lestrade? Yes…Albert the saxophonist, Tower of London…of course he did it…Motive? A load of cash…Interview the homeless people who sleep near that alley—they'll probably have seen it. What?...Oh, the girlfriend. She's not important, you can forget her…Bye." He hung up.

"But what about the naked part?" I asked.

"If you want to keep a man from escaping, first you tie him up. Then, you take his clothes. A person's much more likely to try to escape at night if that's the case, and of course catching up with him if he does manage to get out is that much easier. Oh, and John?"

"Yes?"

"If Lestrade calls again with such a boring case, don't—for the love of god—answer."

"You did get concert tickets out of it," I reminded.

"Ah…true. Well it wasn't a complete waste of an afternoon, I suppose."

##

Charlotte waited outside the theatre for Holmes to show, half expecting he wouldn't. Her navy blue dress had been donned with more than the usual care, and she was terrified he'd notice. He noticed everything—everything except her obvious infatuation. Or, what was more likely, he noticed it and ignored it. She affected indifference, chumminess, but of course he'd see through that. The four weeks spent sitting in his flat for an hour each day had been the best four weeks of her life, even if he'd been infuriatingly unteachable, inventing new fingerings and changing phrases of Mendelssohn and Schubert to make it "better." Categorically refusing to play any and all Mozart. Playing the same Philip Glass piece for a week, though even after a few hours minimalism became silly self-parody, let alone hard to listen to.

"Philip Glass?" said a voice near her ear. She turned swiftly to see Holmes standing at her side, and stifled a sigh. Suits were made for men like him.

"How'd you know?"

"You get that same exasperated expression on your face whenever you think about Glass. Though why you're exasperated with Glass, I can't see. His music is brilliant. Perfect for thinking."

"For an hour or so, perhaps," she countered. "After that it's just repetitive."

"That's merely because you lack sufficient mental organization. The ability to order one's thoughts and file them away correctly, for future reference, is indispensable."

"The rest of the world uses computers, the great Holmes relies on Glass and nicotine patches."

"Computers are aids, and should never be used as a substitute for actual knowledge."

"Stimulants are aids as well—we've all got our crutches." She thought she had a point, and Holmes must have as well, because he ignored her last statement and inclined his head towards the door.

"Shall we?"

"Let's." They joined the queue, and she continued, "What do you suppose Shostakovich's crutch was?"

"Fear. He thrived on it. Why else would he have stayed in the Soviet Union?"

##

Inside the concert hall they found their seats (rather good ones—the tickets were a present from one of Charlotte's friends in the RPO), and settled in to enjoy the music. Charlotte slipped off her silver heels. Sherlock quirked an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Great, aren't they? Hurt like hell, though."

"I fail to see the attraction in uncomfortable footwear. If you can't run in them, they're not worth wearing."

"Oh, but I can run in these," countered Charlotte, "should the occasion arise. I just need foot surgery afterwards."

"Quite." Sherlock rolled his eyes, and turned his attention to the program notes, passing the time until the downbeat by correcting the grammatical errors in it.

##

After the concert they left the hall together, having spent the entire time muttering insulting judgments of Ms. Hahn's playing to each other. The cold London night made their voices carry, and their fellow concert-goers shot them affronted looks as Sherlock yelled, "Passion! Where was the passion? Of all things that might be lacking from Shostakovich, passion should not ever be among them."

Charlotte grimaced, and answered, "You have to admit though, she was technically perfect."

"Bah—technique. Anyone with half a brain can ape technique."

"An ape, even, can ape technique."

"Puns? The low quality of playing has obviously affected your sense of humor."

"It's wordplay," Charlotte insisted, hailing a taxi. "And the next time I invite you to a concert, I'll make sure the player is passionate, not merely technically proficient."

"Next time…?"

Charlotte swung into the taxi, and leaned out of the window as it drove off. "Or you could just show me how it's done yourself!" She sat back down. There. Let him figure that one out.


End file.
